Live for the Night
by Petra Jade
Summary: Three famous Red Light workers in 1930s France have banded together to raise an orphan boy found nearly dead outside their brothel. But even with their carefulness, fourteen year old Ciel soon gains attention both inside and outside the brothel: a dangerously tempered brothel owner threatening slavery and an unreadable nobleman taking an unusual interest in the boy.
1. I Live for the Night

**This is my NaNoWriMo project. I did **_**not**_** win (cause of a sudden increase of work and the fact there was only one computer in the house between five people). However, I do have most of the chapters done, so I'll post them in a relatively regular pace. I WILL update **_**Imaginarium**_**, kittens, and **_**The Boy in the Trap**_**. But again, I share a computer with five people.**

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Winter had once again returned to France. The war had just ended, and many of the European nations were in ruins. It seemed that only France had survived the total devastation, thanks to the seemingly unending strength of the franc. But even with the war over, work never seemed to end for those in the Red Light districts of the 'unmentionable' parts of Paris, France. Street Walkers, Brothel Workers, Drug Dealers, underground markets; the red light was booming in business since the soldiers who had returned seemed to need a way to forget the horrors of the battlefield. Sometimes there did not even want the sexual end of a prostitute's work or the high the dealers offered, they just wanted someone to talk too. Someone to listen of the bloody tales that wove in and out of their nightmares; tales of screams and fire and blood, deafening gunfire combining with bellowed orders and planes firing overhead made for a horror story of the senses as the men spoke.

But as the snow fell over the district, one woman, no older than twenty, stood to the side of a wall. She was dressed in a simple but eye-catching short skirted gown that accented her legs but left her no defense against the wind of the France winter. She was waiting for a client, her red hair done up in twin pigtails that made her look younger and more energetic than she felt. Her face was covered in makeup, done up to make her look like a proper whore, cheeks aflame with both cold and blush, lips painted a deep burgundy that sent a look of purple into her hair. She rubbed her nose a little, feeling it run against the cold air that swept past her face. It was cold, and her tights did nothing to protect her legs from the wind as it began to pick up the dry flakes of snow and sweep them along the streets like wayward spirits; it was lonely tonight.

The silence defended her as she waited, looking over to the nearby clock tower to check the time. Her client was late and she was shaking now. It was too cold for her to be working tonight, but she needed the money to pay for dinner this week for her and her two partners in crime, as it were. The three had agreed once-upon-a-time many years ago to blend their money together in order to make brothel life easier. They all shared the same dream, to one day save up enough money to leave the brothel and prostitute life behind for a better one. Her heels clicked against the snowy ground as she shuffled around, trying in vain to make her body warm up as the wind once again died down, and the flakes falling against the ground in silent blankets. No one was on the street tonight, not even the Street Walkers or the police. She was completely alone.

Ten more minutes passed in silence before she decided the cold had kept her client and free dinner at bay. She sighed. It was the way of the prostitute, unfortunately. Some days went better than others, and some days were like this: silent, cold and dinnerless. She uncrossed her arms and pushed away from the wall, it was time to go back. At least the brothel was warmer and she had the blankets on her bed that kept the winter chill at bay. Her blankets were nowhere near as warm as Madam Red's, since the older woman had long been at this business and had a few wealthy patrons, but at least she was not sleeping on the streets anymore. She walked past many an orphan on the street who took shelter in over turned trash cans during winter when the police were away from the back alleys. She could not help them, she had barely enough money to pay for food herself. Most of them would end up in a brothel themselves, or as street walkers, or even in a rich man's collection.

But anything was better than starving and freezing on the streets. The war had left many orphans though, and the winter was harsh, and many times she had walked over the frozen corpses of a child holding their younger sibling to them in a vain attempt to keep them warm through the night. She desperately wished she could have spared a coat or a blanket, but she truly had nothing to give. And the brothel was not hers to give shelter too. And since she had recently messed up quite a few arrangements due to her own stubbornness and refusal to do certain _things_ with her clients in the public parts of the brothel, it was unlikely a hint or push from her would change the Madam's mind. In fact, it would probably make the owner of the brothel fire her and send her back to the streets. That was something she could not afford.

As she passed yet another snow-covered ally, a small sound caught her attention. A tiny mound of snow suddenly shifted at the click of her heels, moving away as if terrified. This caused her to pay attention closely to it, since most of the orphans in the streets would move closer to the sounds of people passing by. This one moved away, as if terrified of her passing by. Taking a risk, she walked towards the lump, through the shin-deep snow as it moved away. Eventually the snow fell from the figure, revealing a small boy covered in a thick coat that was more of a blanket to him. Whoever had left him here obviously left him with some defense, which was better than most of those abandoned in the Red Light. She continued pursuing the boy, until he was pressed against the far wall and unable to escape. As she came within touching distance the child whimpered, burrowing further into the coat.

"P-please. Go'way." A tiny voice pleaded. He could not have been older than four. "Go'way."

"Hey, don't worry," she responded, kneeling in the snow against her better judgment, "I won't hurt you. My name is Meyrin, what's yours?" She asked gently.

"N'body. Go'way." The boy responded, clinging to the coat as the wind once again stirred the flurries of snow into tiny tornadoes in the limited area of the ally.

"Come on, what's your name? I won't hurt you." She tried again, putting her hand on his shoulder on top of the jacket, feeling how cold the fabric was already getting. "Are you cold?"

The tiny being nodded, the jacket moving up and down as he did.

"Are you hungry?" She asked again. Once again the nod shook the jacket. She smiled gently. "Okay, how about you tell me your name and I'll take you someplace warm and get you something to eat?" She offered. Why mercy had suddenly gripped her was beyond her, perhaps because this boy was so young. Or perhaps because he clearly had an older man's winter coat, meaning someone once cared very deeply for him once or still did.

The tiny body shifted, revealing a tiny head of slate-to-black hair and a pair of lapis eyes. He was smaller than she expected, skinny and weak looking. He would freeze to death in hours rather than days like most those left here. His nose was already bright red and his lips were fighting to stay pink as blue began to outline them. "I-I Ciel." He said quietly, teeth chattering in the wind before he ducked back into his makeshift fortress. Meyrin smiled to herself, it was an appropriate name for one with eyes the color he did. He would be a beautiful man when he grew up. Meyrin decided then that she had to save this boy, at least this boy. Maybe it would be to make up for all those children she passed on the street who were dying alone. Maybe it was because she had never seen one so young left behind. And it was clear he was barely holding on, even with the jacket covering him.

He was shivering again, wheezing breaths seeming to fight their way from his blue lips as the cold began to bite down on the coat. Meyrin moved then, her own teeth chattering from the cold as the snow soaked into her tights and shoes as she lifted the boy-jacket and all-into her arms. Her feet stung, like glass shards instead of stone as she forced her numbing legs to work. She had another three blocks to go, and her legs were fighting her every step of the way. Shots of pure pain shot up her legs with every step, numbness combing with painful pins and needles as her heels bit harshly. Her skin was like glass, shattering with every step and rebuilding for yet another step as she remembered the tiny bundle in her arms. She positioned the coat again, trying to keep the wind away from him as she walked slowly, heels threatening to crack and break under her awkward gait. Snow was pushed away by her movements, no longer picking up her feet but dragging them through the snow, making the pain in her feet double. She refused to stop.

Her feet were numb by the time the lights of the Black Lace, the brothel she called home, came into sight. She almost wept with joy at the sight and her feet seemed to pick up, despite her inability to feel them. She moved the bundle in her numbing arms, panic welling in her heart as she felt him flop like a dead weight. _No..._ She thought to herself, _please don't die on me, Ciel. Not you._ She pleaded, holding the boy closer against the wind, willing her body heat to somehow restore him.

"Don't worry, Ciel," she spoke, teeth chattering, "We're almost there. Soon there will be food and water and you can sleep on my bed. I'll even steal one of Red's blankets for you." She muttered, as if her words would bring him back to instant life and he would perk up. She stepped out on to the shoveled cobblestones of the area in front of the brothel. She did not bother to go through the front, she would get caught by whoever was working the front. And whoever braved the storm for an easy night would surely question why she was carrying a child that was clearly not hers. She decided to go through the back. Once she swept inside the door, the heat of the place instantly flooded her senses and within seconds she felt her face tingling and pain returning to her feet. But she could not stop and check on her package yet, not until she was in the safety of her room.

She passed a few fellow workers, who all shot her questioning looks, but nothing more than that occurred. For the most part the brothel workers would not rat each other out, as long as you did not rat them out. She pushed open the door for the three-bed room she shared with her two closest friends and was quick to place her bundle on her bed. She whipped off the jacket and put her ear to his mouth. She was relieved when she heard tiny breaths coming from the boy, but his body was freezing quickly and Meyrin knew she had to warm him up as quickly as possible. Stealing the blankets from Madam Red's bed and wrapping the boy tightly, she grabbed her sleeping robe and rushed into the bath house, quickly feeling one of the client baths with as hot of water as she could stand with her hands. She soaked the bathrobe until it was as hot as the water before she returned to him and wrapped him in the robe as well as the blankets.

She heard a loud noise outside and new her roommates had returned and once the two older workers swept into the room, she whipped her head to them tearfully.

"Grell! Angelina! Help me! He stopped breathing and his body is so cold!" She cried, making the other two stop suddenly.

"What are you talking about?" The voice of the elder woman came to her before Meyrin moved to the side, revealing the tiny body wrapped in the thicker blankets. Instantly the woman was at his side, checking him for signs of life.

"Meyrin, grab all the towels you can find in our room and heat them up the way you did the robe, also bring a basin or two of hot water. Grell, change the blankets out every time the towels are changed, which will be every ten minutes or so. We need to get his temperature up now." She barked and the other two quickly carried out her orders. Meyrin would have to explain herself and these actions later, she was sure of it, but as she carried in the basins of hot water and watched Angelina warm the cloth on his head before it got cold and she eagerly ran from bathhouse to room to keep hot towels nearby the boy.

It seemed like hours before color returned to the boy's face and Angelina declared he was a normal body temperature again.

"Though, he will need to stay bundled up tonight." She said, standing.

"But that means one of us will be without blankets." Complained the only male in the room, a flamboyant red-head known as Grell.

"I'll sleep with him." Meyrin said quietly. "I found him, so I'll stay with him." She said timidly. Angelina nodded and laid in her own bed, returning the blankets to her bed and laid in them. Grell did the same after locking the door to their room before returning to his own bed. Meyrin climbed into bed with the tiny boy, pulling him close to her body and covering them both in the blanket. She knew it would be hard, taking care of this boy and convincing her partners to do the same, but she felt close to this boy now. And nothing would ever tear them apart.

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**I want love for this project, kittens. You know I love you (I write these things, gosh darnit), but I need to know you love me back. I take criticism and if you find and error, please point it out for me so I can fix it. **

**Please be reminded that it's often the reviews that make a story popular (and people are more likely to click on a story with more reviews—and you know it. Don't lie). So if you like a story, leave it a review. SERIOUSLY.**

**Love,**

**Petra Jade**


	2. I Live for the Lights

**8 reviews on one chapter. I love you all~**

**So my wifey-boo mentioned that I should put a disclaimer. I personally think that a person reporting **_**fan fiction**_** as copy right infringement is clearly a very lonely person, but it makes Niki feel better so:**

**I do not own Black Butler/Kuroshitsuji. Nor do I own **_**Live for the Night**_** by Krewella, the lyrics of which I have used as chapter (and story) title. Go listen to it. Now. **

**Did I forget anything? Hmmm. This may turn into an 'M' rating in later chapters, so there's your warning. Now you may read. Go. Read the words I have written upon this digital page.**

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Winter seemed much colder now that the war was over. So many orphans littered the streets now, easy prey for the depraved and the rich. And many soldiers now filled the bars and brothels, seeking distraction from their own mental issues. But they paid well, same as everyone else who entered the Red. But sometimes the things they wanted were out of the question, things such as acting like a dead spouse or a former lover who abandoned them in favor of a lover who had not gone to war; it was both an unusual offer and one not many self-respecting workers would adhere too. One in particular found the practice disgusting and beneath him.

He was a stunning site when he walked the streets, hair as red as the evening sun that reached all the way to his feet. It moved like a river of silk, each strand silky and straight that swung as he walked. He was meticulous about his appearance, and it paid off many times. He was popular with the clients, both new and old. Probably because he could easily change from man to woman; he was a creature of halves and changes, as elusive and quick to change as a butterfly. Yes, he fancied himself highly, and was often at odds with the other workers of Black Lace. They all nattered about like twittering little magpies in the presence of a coin. He preferred to strut like a bright red peacock and let the coins come to him, so he primped and preened day in and day out to make himself perfect.

Lips colored with thick rogue, eyes lined with charcoals and pigments from all areas of the spectrum; he may not have been born a noble woman, but he sure as hell carried himself as one. Every inch a refined person, he could speak as eloquently as any high-born person. But he could not read or write, like most prostitutes, yet that did not stop him from pretending. That was the name of the game in working the streets in the Red Light, bringing in clients for the brothel. It was all about pretending. The art of being something you were not and making people believe it. He posed as a woman to those he met on the street, and very few were lucky enough to meet his male half. His name was Grell Sutcliff, and he was a cross dressing prostitute. Most found it an odd practice, and some refused to even return to the brothel because of him; however, there were far more that found the idea alluring and returned again and again to have him for the evening.

He had been doing this for years, more than he could count, and had the entire thing down to an art form. Grell was an artist in the deepest sense of the word, suffering and profiting for his art. Each evening was spent toiling over his appearance as his transformation from male to female began; from hair to makeup and forcing his feet into the crimson heeled shoes he wore, always enduring the awful pain of the preparation. Then he would take to the front end of the brothel and enjoy the pleasures of attention and clients. He was profitable, so he was spoiled by the Madam and the wealthy owner. He was also spoiled by his two friends. His cute little Meyrin looked to him for advice and tips, since she was so much younger and very new at this compared to him. Angelina gave him tips and the extra ornate dresses from her patrons that were too big. He was like the perfect middle child in their makeshift family, given everything he wanted and watching over his two partners in crime with a watchful-and vengeful-eye.

There were times he got violent at patrons. He did not take kindly to those who mistreated the workers in the brothel, and many times he had sent them flying out of the building, bleeding and at least one rib cracked. He was passionate in everything he did, and the fiery red of his emotions burned brightly and often out of control. He loved deeply, lusted deeper and enjoyed violence the deepest. But he had limited room for true love in his heart, choosing rather to bury the insecurities involved with being a prostitute under mountains of lustful chasing of men and putting over dramatic emotion in everything he did. Only three people had moved deep enough into his heart to allow for true devotion from the constantly changing pursuer of profit and temporary emotional highs. One was Meyrin, the recently-adult girl who found herself swept away by the brothel life. She had been a street walker before, and now she was nervous, timid and passed over by clients because she rarely stood out. Grell had become incredibly attached to her and he would protect her to the end.

The second was Angelina Durless, an older woman with short red hair and a fondness for red that put even Grell to shame. She was professionally known as Madam Red, and she was as well-known as the Red Light District or the Moulin Rouge. She had many patrons, though not enough to escape brothel life and become a Mistress to a wealthy man. She often confided in Grell and he found himself trusting the woman with his own dreams and thoughts. What she said was law in his eyes, like the leader figure he never had before. He would do anything she asked without question and he found himself hoping for the day Madam told him that she had found a man to take her as a Mistress. The final figure was a tiny boy Meyrin had brought home from a failed client meeting.

The night he had appeared was one of the coldest Grell remembered that winter. He was deep into charming a man who was very in to trying something new-that new thing being Grell himself-when the signal for an ended night came from the upper floors. The men began to filter out of the area, a few women in disguise in their ranks, and Grell stood to stretch his arms and dust off the bottom of the gown he wore. It was in beautiful taste, inspired heavily from the romanticized picture of an old west saloon girl, slit high up his leg and covered in black laces and red ruffles. He adored it, feathered bustle and all. His heels clicked on the floor as he made his way towards the entrance, awaiting the arrival of the woman he adored most in the world. Without fail she appeared, walking through the snow in a fine red gown and scarlet parasol that kept the flurries at bay. She was a vision in the winter, like a blood stain in fresh snow; Grell felt a smirk pull at his rouged coated lips.

"Angelina~" He purred as she neared. The woman smiled at him.

"Hello, Grell, how was your evening?" She asked, entering the door and closing her bright red parasol.

"It was terribly boring, Angie." He whined. "I only had one boy interested, and he was a terrible bore. All sorts of prudish and worried about his wife finding out." He complained as the older woman dusted snow from her skirt and chuckled.

"That happens sometimes, my lonely little one." She soothed, petting his hair like she was flattening ruffled feathers. "I had dinner with a lovely father and son couple. The father is an old friend of mine from before his married days, and he wanted to discuss my services for his son's birthday gift." She said, sitting on a nearby couch to unlace her boots.

"You get all the fun." Grell pouted, crossing his arms over his chest and sitting on the arm of the sofa. He crossed his leg expertly, the slit of the dress moving up provocatively as he leaned against the couch's back.

Angelina chuckled, patting the silk and satin covered leg of her companion. "I'm sure it'll pick up around here soon enough. It's a dry season, my sweet. Not many men will brave the cold for a risk-free night with one of us." She commented. The comment earned a whining sigh from the red headed cross dresser.

"I know." He spat back, voice reflective of a child told the logic behind why he could not have a cookie before dinner.

"Has Meyrin returned from her meeting?" Angelina asked him and Grell was snapped from his thoughts of the brothel being a boring place to work.

"If she has it wasn't through the front." Grell responded. He was slightly worried. It was getting colder now that the sun was completely gone, and if Meyrin had yet to return she would probably freeze to death. Or perhaps she had been kidnapped. Either way, Grell was prepared to go out and find his little Meyrin and make sure she was alright.

As if sensing his thoughts, the older woman placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Let's check our room before we rush out in to the night, weapons held high and skirts fluttering like capes in the wind." She said, patting his arm.

Grell laughed. "How heroic and romantic, Madam Red." He said before scooting off the couch and standing. He offered an arm to the woman and helped her stand before they walked down the stairs to the lower floors were the worker's residential rooms were located. Grell sent a wink at the hired guard, a tall man with carefully crafted short hair and glasses, before they disappeared into a side hallway. Once all the workers had made it downstairs, they were required by contract to not leave their rooms. If they did, their safety was up to them and the hired guards were not required to help them. But Grell was fully capable of taking care of himself, and always had a sharpened blade with him. Angelina had a gun in her perfume bag and Meyrin also carried a small firearm with her; Grell made sure.

Their shoes clicked against the silent halls as they neared the largest room in the brothel, a gift to Angelina when she had scored a patron in a French advisor to the king. Now Angelina shared it with Grell and Meyrin, the room now crowded with three beds and three makeshift closets. But it was warm with three bodies, and it had the only door that led to the outside alleyway between the brothel and a nearby rented bathhouse. When Japan fever had hit Europe in the 1800s, the bathhouse had been a prime attraction, but since the devastation of the war, it was not kept in the best condition. But the property belonged to Black Lace and was a prime spot for profit, what with public or communal bathing giving the feeling of living in Ancient Rome. The people enjoyed the power play, and in a time when nothing seemed to be going right, it was the right move for the brothel to get a great increase in profit. And it was one of the few places in the Red Light that had the ability to get hot water.

The two red heads watched as two women workers got into an argument about a brush, scoffing between themselves as they opened the door to the room. Grell instantly noticed the blankets on Angelina's bed were missing.

"Grell! Angelina! Help me!"

The next few moments for Grell were spent changing blankets on a half-frozen four year old boy in an effort to save his life. It was long and grueling-especially in heels and the cold of the late night-but soon enough Angelina declared him alive. A feeling of relief washed over Grell. He could finally take off his boots.

"I'm not sleeping with it." He declared when Angelina responded that someone needed to sleep with the kid to keep his body temperature up through the night.

"I'll sleep with him." Meyrin said, giving the blankets back to Angelina and crawling under her covers with the tiny child. Grell sighed. He would deal with this in the morning.

"Momma! Momma!" The tiny, excited voice of a young boy came to Grell's ears as he entered the bedroom after his appointment with a man. Instantly a tiny body collided with his waist and he chuckled to himself, though he groaned on the outside. It was still strange being referred to as 'momma,' but Grell was getting more and more used to it as the boy grew. He could even distinguish between which of the three roommates the child was referring too. Grell was 'momma', Meyrin was 'mommy', and Angelina was 'mother'. But Grell would not let his nickname deter him.

"Ciel, I am tired." He complained when the child would not release him. Internally he was purring like a happy cat, but outside he had to remain stern as he gently removed the child from his waist and sat on his bed. Instantly the tiny boy climbed up into his lap and Grell made a huge show of his displeasure, groaning and huffing like a child. The little one giggled and refused to move, knowing this was one of their games.

"Oh, fine! Since you simply refuse to let your poor tired momma rest after a long day, tell me what has you so excited." He finally conceded. The seven year old on his lap clapped his hands in an almost victorious way and began.

"Mommy taught me to shoot today since she had no jobs." He said and Grell nodded. Meyrin was the better shot between Angelina and her, and she had fewer requests. "And she made me lunch and then she took me on a walk around the district." He babbled excitedly.

"That's good. But what about when she was busy?" He asked.

"I hid in here and read the book Mother got me." Ciel affirmed and Grell stroked his hair.

"Good boy. Now, what else will you bother me with?" Grell asked. The boy smiled and pulled his knees up and cuddled closer into his Momma's lap.

"Nothin'. I thought maybe we could just take a nap together or something. If you want. Since you are tired." He said and Grell felt his insides melt. Grell was the farthest thing from a mother the boy could get, but he loved the boy nevertheless. He smiled and laid down, holding the small boy close.

"Fine, brat, fine. But only because I'm too tired to argue." He said, pulling the blanket over them and letting the young boy cling to him.

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**I thank all of you who reviewed last chapter (like promocat, the Serial Reviewer, who I now invite into my harem). Also to answer some reviews:**

**I have no idea what ages Grell, Angelina and Meyrin are. Meyrin is the youngest, but I never had a specific age in mind. This story is based mostly around Ciel's age, so I only really have a specific age for him. **

**Yes, Grell is a guy (see the use of pronouns), but he cross-dresses when he works. He is...I would say bi-sexual, but Grell is Grell and would probably make out with a lamp. And to all the Grell fangirls out there, I am aware he is a transsexual in the manga/anime and sees himself as a woman. I tried for a happy medium.**

**Also, my plea still stands. However, I wish to extend it to all the stories you read, not just mine. I know it's a pain to review from things like smart phones (which I read all fanfiction on, cause I read fanfiction at like 2 am), but it really does mean the world to writers to know their work is appreciated by others. Favorites and alerts also are important. **

**Love to all of you,**

**Petra Jade**


	3. I Live for the High

**Long delay? Long delay. I apologize. I got swept away in birthday wishes (I share the same birthday as Ciel coincidentally enough), Christmas rush at work (hate retail sometimes), Sherlock and new video games. But never you mind, lovelies. Have a chapter. I PROMISE, this is the last introductory chapter. Plot begins in the next one. So please leave a review on the way out.**

**Oh. And to satisfy Niki's paranoia: I still have no ownership over Black Butler or the 1930s. It would be interesting for a person to claim a time period though, huh?**

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It was a business as old as civilization itself. And she was the queen of it. She walked as if she owned the streets, sat in even the dingiest chair as if it was a throne, and spoke to friend and foe alike with a voice that was halfway between endearing and condescending. She was smart, crafty, beautiful and merciless when it came to her prey. And all that had accumulated into a successful run in her line of work. She was favored, sought after and paid well; gifts, free meals and all of it because she maintained an illusion for her clients. She gave them an escape from the normal hustle and bustle of life. And what an escape she was.

There was no doubt that she was beautiful. Her short red hair was like a plume of feathers from the stunning cardinal. Her lips were always painted bright crimson and her nails always matched. Like a bright red beak and talons, she was as frightening in all red as she was beautiful and rare. Her wardrobe consisted of many fine gowns, given by old patrons as parting gifts when they went off to get married. She wore them with pride, happy that they had escaped the clutches of a life of prostitution. Her favorite was a long ballroom-type gown that hugged her frame tightly but ruffled around the leg slit like a Spanish dress. It was bright scarlet, with accents of white and dark blue and white rhinestones lining the chest line. With it she wore a large sun hat covered in bright red silk flowers: roses, lilies, and smaller blossoms. One large peacock feather offset the red and made for a stunning get up. It was her dress to meet clients in and she had a very important one today.

He was an old client, from before she even worked at Black Lace. She had watched him go from middle class apprentice to a local business owner to the owner of a five store franchise across France. He was not the wealthiest, but he was a personal friend and so she granted him audience, despite the cold of the season.

"Evening, Madam Red." The voice of her client came to the woman's ear as she entered the restaurant they agreed to meet in. The warmth was most welcome as the woman closed her red parasol and hooked it on her deep blue gloves. She smiled at the waitress and glided over to the table her client sat at. Her eyes were dramatically cast against thick smoky lines as she passed her gaze over the older man and younger boy.

"Good evening, Mr. Edwards." The woman responded with a curt smile. The man across from her chuckled and removed his hat.

"Alright, Angelina, I'll drop the formal if you do." He responded and the woman nodded.

"Agreed, dear Marcus." She responded, voice light and airy. She left her hat on, but removed her gloves as the waiter approached, ready to take their orders for the food that evening. Her auburn eyes passed over the younger of the two and when he made eye contact with her, she sent him an easy-going smile over the rim of her interlocked fingers. "So, Marcus, what am I here for?" She asked before she sent her order for a drink to the young waiter.

Marcus Edwards ordered his own drink and one for the younger boy before watching the waiter leave. Once he was out of sight, he turned back to the prostitute across the table. He motioned to the younger boy again and once again Angelina's eyes passed over the boy. He was skinny, but healthy enough from his appearance. The resemblance was clear, marking the boy as Marcus's son, though the gentle features of his mother were clear. Angelina had never personally met the woman, but she knew the woman to be smart and beautiful, from all the raving Marcus had done about her in the last days of their relationship. Angelina smiled fondly, wanted to touch the boy's gentle looking face. While his father was angular, the boy was more rounded and gentle, cheeks reddened from the situation and the cold outside. She chuckled fondly.

"Let me guess, it's the boy's first time?" She said gently and laughed openly when his face darkened considerably to nearly a shade that matched her hair.

"He is getting married in three months," Marcus began, "but I just recently found out he has no experience!" The man raved as the boy attempted to shrink further and further into the seat. "Never once went to a woman of your employment for pleasure or experience, never even asked me. The boy is too shy about sex it seems-he gets that from his mother you know-so I decided to fix the problem. After all, the time I spent with you did nothing but good to prepare me for my time with Michelle." He said and Angelina laughed again.

"Well, I wouldn't say I am an excellent wedding advisor, Marcus, but sexual experience is something I _can_ teach." She said with a sultry smile, making the boy's face turn even redder. "Oh, Marcus, _sweetie_, he is too _cute_. When?" She asked.

"When is your next opening for a three day...rental?" He asked.

"Hmmm." Angelina hummed to herself as she thought, taking a drink from the cup that had appeared before her thanks to the waiter. "I believe I have three days free two weeks from now, but I will have to check with the Madam. How about I send a messenger to your home in a few days to let you know?" She offered and the man nodded.

"Excellent. I will secure the payment then." He said and she nodded.

Once again the waiter appeared again to take food orders.

~O~

That evening had been the most eventful Angelina remembered since the war ended. Meyrin had brought home a little stray who was on the doorstep of death, and Angelina felt the instinct to protect and heal again rise within her. It felt good, to be working at the medical trade again after so long. It brought her back to a time when she had been working as a nurse aid on the front lines; she had been so young then. A young girl of only fourteen, running aid to each and every one of the nurses working at the bedsides of sick and dying soldiers. It had been busy and taxing work, the stress levels of the nurses causing her own stress to fly through the roof. Seeing so many die, so many men spend countless days suffering only in order to finally give their last breaths far away from home; she found the life of a prostitute far more kind in comparison. The illusion of love and happiness she kept up with the help of the other workers was like a drug, a blessed change of pace from the true horror of the real world. Perhaps that is why so many had flocked to the brothels in hope of this hallucination.

But this tiny form; this tiny boy had brought back all the memories of those nights spent ducking from the weapons and search lights of the planes. The days spent holding a soldier's hand as he told her the stories of the family he'd never see again. The tragedy of those days resurfaced and she found herself once again in the numbness of saving a life. She hated Meyrin for bringing such a memory back in the form of a boy, but as she watched the color return to his skin and the breath in his lungs become stronger, she found that she once again felt a joy she had not felt in _years_. All the time spent in a lie, the lie of being nothing more than a common street worker was blown away by the joy of saving a life. And she _missed it_. She _longed for it_.

She was the one who decided they had to keep the boy. What good was her saving his life only to send him back in the cold and exposure? But it was dangerous to keep a child at the brothel, since young children often ruined the image of perfection and escape the brothel stood to achieve. They would have to keep him hidden, and for a long time, until he was old enough to either join the work or find an apprenticeship somewhere else. But that idea brought a new problem Angelina was not fully prepared to deal with: the boy needed an education. He was only four years old, and clearly a war orphan. But he was British, from his accent, and one of the "lost nobles" who had been wiped out in the war. Angelina had heard the boy's last name before, but as far as she knew, the last of the boy's line had gone off to war and died. Without any lineage to protect him, he was the same as any of the other nameless orphans on the street. But Angelina would change that. She had been educated as a child as a member of British nobility herself, so she could teach the boy to read, write and basic arithmetic. Most of her education had been in dancing, painting, singing and medical work, useless things for a boy.

But English was one of her strong suites, and she knew French as well, which would give the boy an edge if he could make it outside France. And basic medical training did no one any harm, and someday he might get caught alone with a large gnash and no doctor nearby; it was decided, she would teach him what she knew.

It took them a while for the boy to actually trust them and talk to them. He was terrified that they would send him back, and it took many nights of Meyrin coaxing him out of his shell for the boy to finally open up, and instantly Angelina fell in love. He had a beautifully curious mind, eager to learn and perfect, a mind beyond anything Angelina had ever encountered. What books she managed to get her patrons to part with were devoured in a matter of days when the boy learned to read, and he seemed to be ravenous for more. He was always asking questions: how did that work; what was that; who wrote that; why is it that way; can that be changed? He was brimming with questions that could not always be answered, but his intelligence was easily sated by watching people.

It was a dangerous habit Ciel had acquired upon turning nine. He would climb up in to the rafters above the lobby and watch the people below talk and interact. Angelina was furious at him for doing it, but there was nothing the busy woman could do to stop him. None of his "mothers"-as he called the three of them-were around for the majority of the day. Sometimes they had days off where they were not needed up in the lobby or in front on the streets (though never at the same time), but those days were few and far between. The boy was alone during the day, and that made Angelina worry profusely for a while until she decided that Ciel was incredibly good at hiding himself from the guards on duty.

Another problem that plagued Angelina's mind was how beautiful her "son" was growing. He had been adorable when he was small, and as he grew the adorable turned to cute, turned to beautiful. He was still very feminine at age eleven, with short black-grey hair that seemed to shine no matter how dirty it got or how few and far between his baths were. And his eyes, wide and full of curiosity and mischief, were blue as the Egyptian Lapis stones rich women wore as trophies around their necks. They might as well have been, for Angelina was sure Ciel's eyes had been stolen from some lost Egyptian tomb somewhere and placed in the possession of her beloved little boy. His skin was fair and next to flawless, a few small scars from misplaced feet during climbs or missteps that led him into doors or tables. He was pale, no doubt, and looked sometimes like a doll. It would not be long until someone caught sight of the beautiful boy she and her co-parents raised in secret. She dreaded that day when her precious little one would be spotted and taken away or worse, forced into using his beauty for the brothel. He would attract many customers; however, that was not the life she wanted for her boy.

She would keep him safe, like the treasure he was, and would find some way to get him out of the brothel before it was too late. She owed him that much, since she was probably the strictest of his mothers, and often yelled at him when he did not take his studies serious. She sometimes worried that he hated her, but that was a small price to pay for getting him out of this gilded cage. No, she would take his anger and backlash hatred, as long as her precious little bird got to fly away from this hell house.

* * *

**I am refusing the instinct to write Sherlock fanfiction and instead bringing you this. **

**Be grateful.**

**Graaaatefuuuuul. **

**LOVE YOU,**

**Petra Jade.**


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